


Final Mission

by Kamiki



Series: Tumblr Fanfic Prompts [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Assets & Handlers, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Extremely Dubious Consent, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Memory Alteration, Mind Manipulation, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2141487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamiki/pseuds/Kamiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: Hey my name is Christine and I was wondering if u'd write a fanfic for my cousin (she's kinda shy u'know?) She's my age and she kinda ships the whole Bucky!Whump, Abuse, hurt/comfort, the whole deal... so I was wondering if u could write a fic about Steve finding Bucky in a basement maybe the Bank Vault or Pierce's House, he's in a bad way and Steve kinda has to help him recover?</p><p>Okay so I'm breaking this prompt into 2-Parts because I wasn't sure if the requestor really wanted the Hydra trashy precursor or not - but I've been looking for a good excuse to get some dirty Bucky/Alexander action going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Final Mission

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate turn of events in CATWS, with Captain American the gang getting away from the STRIKE team after the battle on the bridge. Steve has immediately gone looking for Bucky on his own, leaving Natasha, Sam, and Maria to fix the mess with Hydra/SHIELD

The soldier's eyes fluttered open. His brain was fuzzy, like he had been asleep for a very long time. That's how it always was, after the wipes. Lost in time, not knowing how long he had been out since his last mission. It could have been an hour ago, or it could have been ten years. There were only a few signs he could count on to try and figure it out.

He wasn't cold. When he had been asleep for a significantly long time, it took hours, sometimes days, before the chill lifted off his flesh. 

He was sore. Though he healed faster than most men, the Soldier could use the ache in his bones and the color of the bruises on his skin to judge when he was last awake.   Apparently, it hadn't been very long since his last mission. 

That was unusual. They never wiped him more than they had to; there were always things he would forget that he wasn't supposed to; how to load the newest rifle in his arsenal or a chokehold variation. Which of his handlers preferred complete silence and which preferred abject and verbal obedience. Re-learning things was hard; not because he had to learn them again but because he never knew what he had forgotten until he was being punished. 

But, in general, the wipes were significantly selective. He didn't remember specifics - locations, most people, his past, his name. But he did remember things. How to do things. How to use a weapon and how to fight and how the read a map and fly and plane and a million more. He also knew his handlers. They were imprinted on him; only one at a time. He knew there were others, but he didn't know who they were anymore. 

His current handler, Alexander Pierce, was there waiting for him. He was sitting on a chair, backward, his chin resting on his hands as he waited for his asset to awaken. A few other men stood around, holding weapons. He flinched voluntarily but didn't attack; he had no mission. His cold eyes leveled on Pierce. He did not look happy. Despite his best efforts, the soldier felt a tightening in his chest; when Pierce was angry it usually was taken out on him in some way. He couldn't recall what he may have done to make him unhappy, and he dared not show the apprehension on his face. The slight clench of his jaw was the only outward sign. 

"You have a new mission," he said evenly. "It will be your final one." 

The soldier's brows creased ever so slightly. What did that mean? Was he going back into the ice forever? Was it a suicide mission? Would he be killed to tie up loose ends?  Was he going to be set free?  It wasn't that the soldier didn't have emotions. He had fears and apprehensions. But his ability (and desire) to express them had been beaten out of him, quite literally. He was a ghost; no identity to speak up and only a fragile handle on his own emotional state. He knew nothing of the world out there; nothing further than Alexander Pierce and his missions. 

He didn't react to Pierce's declaration. He just waited for his mission; the outcome was irrelevant.

"One target. Highest level. You will do anything necessary to end him. Do you understand?" 

"Yes," he answered. He had asked direct question so he would give a direct answer.

 

Pierce got up to go over to his briefcase. There would be a tablet in there, loaded especially for this particular mission. It would open only for the Soldier's retinal scan, and it would contain the dossier of the target, the inventory of weapons and men that would be at his disposal, maps, diagrams, blueprints, and megabytes of other relevant information he would need to be the most effective killing machine he could be. 

"You have five hours."  

The asset blinked, surprised. That was an extremely short timetable. But he stayed silent, his muscles tensing and his arm coming alive with a robotic whirr. 

Pierce retrieved the electronic tablet from his briefcase, but found himself pausing. "Rumlow, leave us for a few."   

Brock Rumlow broke his statuesque post, looking way more offended than any honorable soldier should be. The asset found his eyes flickering over to him, judging him. Yet, part of it was envy; the asset knew Pierce wouldn't punish him for speaking out of turn. He wouldn't get slapped across the face, or forced to lick the bottom of Pierce's shoe, or anything like that. That kind of punishment was reserved only for him. 

"Sir?" he asked, obviously either not understanding why, or knowing exactly why and was uncomfortable with the notion.

"You heard me," Pierce said authoritatively, setting the digital mark file on a table. "I'll let you know when I'm finished."

Rumlow's face was creased with disgust (maybe? Or was it something more subtle? Disappointment? Jealously?), but with a grunt and jerk of his head, he headed towards the heavy vaulted door, his men in steady step behind him. 

Pierce waited for the heavy doors to close, and for him to hear the secure clank of the lock. The tablet with the mission assignment was still in his hands, and he tumbled it between them for a few moments before setting it down on a stainless steel table. "Why don't you come down from there," he said to the soldier, who hadn't moved from the device they used to strap him down; though he had been unrestrained since before he had become conscious again. He did as he was told, hopping off the examination chair and standing on his own two feet. His muscles protested, but he did his best to hold in his wince. Showing pain was showing weakness. 

"Look at you," Pierce said, slowly stalking towards him with a menacing patience. He sounded disgusted, but the soldier did exactly as he was told, looking down over himself. "You're filthy."

It was true; the asset was generally only cleaned before they put him back into the ice. They would hose him off with cold water - only scrubbing his skin in the areas that were particularly discolored. They would shave him, sometimes, when the stubble on his face was long enough to cause the mask to chafe and risk not fitting properly. 

But today, further corroborating his theory that he was wiped between missions without going into cryo, he was looking rather ragged. His skin still glistened with a sheen of sweat, several strands of his thick hair plastered to his forehead. His stubble was long enough to feel rough and uncomfortable, and he has smears of blood and dirt smudged over his body. A few of the worst bruises still discolored his skin in patches; they would quickly fade, but their shadows of green and purple will visible for now. 

But he didn't say anything. He didn't agree or disagree with Pierce's statement, because it wasn't a question. The asset only spoke when asked directly, unless told otherwise. He just stood there, his blue grey eyes coming back up to meet the older man's. 

"And I think you like it that way," Pierce added, slowly prowling his way closer.

Again, it wasn't a question, so the soldier didn't answer. He didn't really have an opinion on the matter; even when he was 'clean' he was far from what most people would consider so. He hadn't had a proper shower or bath for over 70 years. 

Pierce sat heavily on a chair, leaning back into it, like a king lounging in his throne. "On your knees, soldier," he commanded cooly, pointing to the area of the floor between his feet. 

He did so without hesitation. The heavy military knee pads made a satisfying scrape over the concrete floor of the bank vault as he settled in. He kept his arms by his side, but looked up to the looming figure with an expectant glare, and the ever-so-slightest desire rising in his chest to remedy whatever disappointment in the man he had stirred. He didn't understand why Pierce being unhappy with him caused this internal turmoil, but he somehow seemed to know he was on the path to making up for it. 

Pierce reached down and unfastened his belt buckle, pulling out his half-erect cock. His eyes went down the asset, expecting. "You know what to do," he said simply, as if they had done this a thousand times before.

Perhaps they had.

The soldier couldn't remember the specifics, but he did indeed know exactly what was expected of him. He rested his hands on the top of Pierces thighs and leaned forward, easily taking the still only partially erect flesh completely into his mouth, sucking delicately on the skin and letting his tongue play around the tip. He immediately felt the relation from Pierce, who let his head drop back. 

Something twisted deep in the soldier's stomach; a nagging war of conflicting emotions that he didn't exactly know how to name. The act itself he knew how to do. Like disassembling a rifle or driving a car; those deep rooted common knowledges that felt like second nature as if he had been doing it his whole life. 

But there was more. This obviously wasn't something he was doing for a mission; this was something he was doing for Pierce. He began to bob his head up and down over the older man's rapidly stiffening member, letting his cheeks hollow out and looking up at him, watching, as the man gave a satisfied sounding moan. His little murmurs of pleasure both egged the soldier on, and also caused his brain to cloud with a nagging, lingering unpleasant emotion.

He thinks it might be shame.

Pierce's hands are in his hair, roughly tangling into his brunet strands and pushing him harder down onto his cock. The soldier felt the end of him hit the back of his throat and he chocked back his gag reflex - he knew that's what Pierce would have wanted. It was something he knew how to do through endless practice, and the deep, darker side of him grew heavier as he wondered silently how exactly he had been given so much practice in order to master this.

"Yes, like that, soldier," Pierce growled low in his throat, pushing the asset harder down onto him still. His nose was grinding against Pierce's public bone as he struggled to pull in air from his nostrils while simultaneously trying to keep his throat swallowing and not choking. Was he usually this rough? The soldier had no way of knowing for sure, but he definitely seemed out of his comfort zone as he struggled to breath around the vicious assault on his mouth. Pierce's hips had begun to jerk upwards on the downstroke, thrusting into his mouth while his hands forced his head hard and fast down onto him.

Perhaps this was different, because Pierce came in a time that seemed faster than normal for the struggling soldier. His seed shot powerfully into the back of the asset's throat, with no warning and he was unprepared. Pierce hadn't warned him, just suddenly his hands were pulling painfully at his scalp and he let a strangled cry release from his mouth, his hips jutting without rhythm.

The solider squeezed his eyes shut, and did his best to hold it back but it was too much too fast. He jerked his head back, releasing Pierce before he had even stopped coming completely, coughing and gasping for air as he fell backwards onto his haunches. His vision was spotty from the lack of oxygen. Before he had completely caught his breath, he felt a hard back hand across his face, splitting the skin over his cheekbone. His face jerked with the impact, but he immediately locked his eyes back on Pierce, his chest heaving as his breathing returned to normal. He could feel the blood beginning to leak down his face, and saliva and come dripping off his chin, but he dared not wipe any of his away until Pierce gave him permission. 

Pierce didn't look angry. He never did; it always just the way he carried himself, or a slight edge to his voice. His hits were always fast - like a serpent striking. Only a glimpse into the boiling evil that bubbled under the surface of his cool and collected exterior. "These pants are dry-clean only," he said, his voice straddling the line between sardonic and accusatory. He was zipping himself back up when a sudden flurry of gunfire from the other side of the heavily armored door; muffled by the barricade. 

The soldier didn't move from his position, but all his muscles tensed up; waiting for his command. Pierce's face broke into a worried expression for just a moment before he clenched his jaw and lurched towards one of the pistols waiting one of the exam tables. He steadied it at the door as it swung open with a heavy creak.

Backlit against the hallway beside him, Pierce fired. The unmistakable sounds of a bullet hitting squarely against Vibranium and falling useless to the ground filled his chest with apprehension.

 

Captain America had found him.

**Author's Note:**

> Want a fic of your own? You can request them here: http://foxyfussings.tumblr.com/ask


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